Postaday for May 21st: Linger. Tell us about times in which you linger — when you don’t want an event, or a day to end. What is it you love about these times? Why do you wish you could linger forever?
At first the swimming pool was freezing cold, but then we got used to it, and we splashed around and clung to the side and talked and splashed some more and just floated by ourselves. Now the pool is cold again, and we’re stubbled with goosebumps. But we don’t want to get out.
We’re shivering and the sun over there is shrugging its shoulders. Looking down at the edge of the sea and getting ready to set. We’re kind of of hungry because we’ve been in the pool for three hours, and three hours without food while you’re on vacation is tantamount to starvation. And yet we can’t get out of the pool.
Our hair is nearly dry, so long has it been since we dunked under, but we still find ways to bob and make small waves, and so our shoulders are wet. They’re the coldest part of us, just above the water where it laps against clavicle and shoulder blade. Maybe that’s why we’re reluctant to leave: the towel’s over there, on the chaise, and it’s so far away.
Or ancient memories of yesterday, when we were in the pool for hours, so long the muscles in our legs atrophied, and when we pulled ourselves out we felt like we weighed a thousand pounds each. We linger because we don’t want to feel so heavy. And the siren calls of a hot shower and room service and a pay-per-view movie are too faint to compel us. We’re deaf to the future.
Even though we’re shivering and our fingertips have turned into wrinkly old men.
If we get out of the pool, we’ll have to go to our room, where we sleep, which brings tomorrow, which brings repacking, a ride to the airport, returning the rental car, that slow rental car shuttle, checking in, the long security line, waiting to board, the cramped airplane seat, the meager four ounces of complimentary beverage, the clenched fist turbulence, waiting for rude people to rush off the plane, baggage claim, car retrieval, a boring familiar highway, the dusty smell of a house closed up for a week, and then work, and then life, and then, and then…
And then no more swimming pools. No more weightlessness. Last night’s luau and yesterday’s snorkeling will be last week’s and then last month’s. This morning’s photo with the sea turtles will be just a piece of paper or an image that floats by on a screen saver.
We don’t want to go. Even though we’re shivering and it’s getting dark and we’re the only people left, even though there’s a sign over there, frowning at us and telling us the pool closes at dusk, even though we know we can’t stay here forever, we’re hoping we can make forever last just a few more minutes.